The Distant Threshold
The fire starts in the boiler room. You hear it before you see it. A low, wet tearing sound, like silk ripping under fingernails, echoing up the iron stairwell. The smell hits next. Not just smoke. Something sweeter. Rancid. The scent of old varnish burning off a chair that has sat in a dark closet for a century. You are still in your office. The radiator ticks. The clock on the wall, a heavy...
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